Raven Dreams
by PanaxFeainn
Summary: When creatures of the past meets one from the future. When in an alternative universe, there was one more member in the hansa. Whose hands held the strings of our destiny? AU reimagining the search for Ciri with one more hansa member. Soft pairing this OC with Regis, in effort to create another possibility for him to have a peaceful life like he deserves, but with a female OC. I wa
1. Prolouge

A burst, a riot of bright colors exploded and disappeared. In a dead-end alley, two figures stood: a girl, or maybe it was a young woman, and a tall, slender man.

"What the hell was that!? What did you do? She was a friend!" The girl spitted out her words, barely suppressed her will to yell and demand. Her body shook with rage, even her ashen hair was tremoring slightly, strands of enchanted light pulses springing into different directions in the rain, like drops of drizzle on an umbrella.

The man replied with a flat voice, "What I knew I must. Let's not draw even more unnecessary attention. Come this way, please." Under the façade of this calmness, he exuded an emotionless, calculative prowess that yielded obedience even from lionesses, at least, when within reasons.

"I will need an explanation." The girl's green eyes flashed.

"As you wish, but later." He did not grab the girl's arms to take her into his direction, which he knew was where they had to be; he didn't even touch her – he merely gestured with his arm and waited. The girl clenched her fists and grimaced, just as she was about to say something, the man spoke again, "She is safe, no need to worry yourself." Then, in a tone that's lower and softer, "I promise you this." The green-eyed girl's eyes stopped flashing and - without taking off her grimace completely - she strode out from the dark alley with him closely following, into the neon lights lit streets, into the night, and into another unknown direction.

In the alley, there was only the muddy dumpster and some lousy anti-corporate graffiti; no trace of what or who happened. In a moment, some of its natural inhabitants would return, first stray cats, organic and not, then homeless junkies and underground business one-dealers. In this world, like most worlds, no one notices when one of its inhabitant stops being in this world; whether the inhabitant disappears in the ultimate sense, or happens on another world, it makes no difference. This world is simply busy raining.


	2. A Midsummer Night's Dream

'Phantoms,' Nimue said not looking at her. 'Visitors from other dimensions, other levels, other places, other times. Visions that transform one's life. Transforms your life and your destiny... Without knowing. For them it is... just another place. The wrong place, wrong time. Who knows how many times...'  
Lady of the Lake, Chapter Seven  
"People there had metal in their heads, waged war from a distance, using things similar to megascopes. And there were no horses, everyone had their own flying ship instead."  
Ciri, in 1272, on the Isle of Mists  
In the following pages, I shall demonstrate common techniques by which dreams may be entered, recorded, and interpreted and that upon the application of these methods every dream will show itself to be a senseful structure. But first, allow me to talk of those who do the dreaming and interpreting: oneiromancers.  
Condwiramus Tilly, The Interpretations of Dreams

Geralt walked towards the cot inside Emiel Regis' summer abode, as the barber-surgeon gestured him to come, carefully avoiding the herbs and roots hanging everywhere.

"How is she?" Geralt asked, looking at the woman lying on bed.

"She's fine. It's only pyrexia, commonly known as a fever. I had given her some medicaments, the high temperature should drop before midnight, and other symptoms should go away completely the next day." The barber-surgeon went on in an explanatory tone, while pulling a thin blanket over the woman. "She's likely going to experience fatigue, I advise to treat that with ample rest and nutrition. Although it would prove to be no quandary, should she want to continue the travel. And if you will forgive me for asking, does the young lady have a name? I see she differs somewhat from the other traveling refugees you and your companions have most kindly taken up as a collective responsibility. To be quite frankly, I have tried to discern the strange marks on her right temple and yet arrived absolutely no conclusion. If you will, please kindly sate my curiosity of my patient."

Geralt almost sighed visibly as the barber-surgeon's melodic voice went on and on. He refrained from making any wry remarks regarding his peculiar language choices, and stated in just a few words the woman's name and how she seemed only have happened to Zoltan Chivay and his company, before they all met up together. The barber-surgeon nodded in a rather wavering amazement and asked for her name again.

"Rana… something. A wordy long name."

"Curious indeed." The barber-surgeon's eyes shone against the dim glow of the burning coal inside the potbelly stove, sitting not too far from them, "I don't believe I have encountered any Northern name as such, but it isn't exactly following any Nifgaardian traditions either. Am I right to assume she's quite far from a local?"

"I don't know if you are right though I assumed the same. She said she came from somewhere 'far far away', and did not deign to explain more than that," Geralt snorted softly, "she said even if she would explain, it'd be just too unbelievable to anyone in this world, and that she's also terrible at directions, so she has no idea where she came from in relation to this place. But," he paused, not wanting to continue but did, "but I cannot abandon her for some reasons I'm not yet willing to reveal, in her consideration. I know for certain she poses no threat. For now it does not matter where she's from." While they were speaking, the woman lying underneath the blanket twitched and moaned faintly. She seemed to have muttered something, but neither Geralt nor the barber-surgeon was able to understand.

The flap was fluttered open while Milva strode in, and a commotion has been stirred up as conversation started to revolve around the mythical-like mandrake root, of which the expertise of Emiel Regis, the barber-surgeon, also the alchemist, was called upon.

As Regis was getting up from the bedside stool, he felt a cold hand touched his. It seemed that woman, Rana, had gained some consciousness and wanted something. Despite her feeble attempt to ("it'd seem") grab his hand, it merely felt like a caress.

He looked at her face for a second time, and noticed she opened her eyes slightly. Those eyes, although bleary and unfocused, still managed to take his attention away from everything else for a few seconds.

They are beautiful eyes, unusual even. He had thought Carmilla's greyish silver eyes were the rarest eyes he'd ever seen, and they were, but these eyes - "A sight to behold."

Deep purple and ocean green, with a singe of gold dust whirling in the depth as they turned. Is it possible?He thought. Like cinnamon powder whirling in autumn human have eyes like these? But when he gathered his thoughts and really looked at them again, he knew the real reason they caught him off guard—they radiated an eerie, bright, metallic light in the dimness. Ordinary people would probably shudder at such sight, but Regis, after all, was not ordinary.

He looked at her frame underneath the thin blanket and saw a normal young human female, probably lived no longer than 25 years; nothing betrayed even the slightest clue of abnormity. There's no doubt she's human, yet something… a curse? Another witcher?(No, he had never heard of female witcheress) In something lied a small difference, a difference not yet discovered, and that aroused Regis' interest: something unbeknownst to him did not come by just every day.

The woman groaned softly again, attempting to turn to her side. A display of rapid eye movements suggested her previous action was only part of the unconscious results to her hazy dream. Regis mused on what the fever might have incited in her sleep, and noticed her short hair slightly tangled up on her forehead because of the sweat. He reached out and brushed the hair away, out of the instinct of the caretakerin him. He felt the warmth exuded from her, the fever and the force of life. Maybe also something else. But he didn't want to sit on the thoughts. It's been some time since he touched a human in sleep. And a woman at that… He felt confusion, withdrew, and readied himself to join the conversation on magic, curses, and mandrake moonshine.

Before he left, he glanced at her once more, at her lips, full and a little chapped from the journeying on foot for days, and indistinct mumblings from her dream. Something about her shook him on the inside. He did not know what and why and how. But he felt it. Something old seemed to have been awakened, and this long-forgotten feeling terrified him a little. He shook away the thought and the feeling before his mind had more chance to further decipher what it was, and was ready to fascinate himself in the ingenuity of Zoltan's tale, on how to avoid the oh-so-terrible curses from mandrake roots, also called "love apple." Such avoidance was easy, for what the curse targeted ultimately derived from a non-founded novelty, a source material for passing-times on the dinnertable; some things, however, cannot be avoided so easily.

In the little cottage, warm with strong herbal aroma, alcoholic sweat and nocturnal conversations, Rana dreamed.

In her dream, she was dancing very fast. Swirling and swooshing. A girl danced with her; a girl with pointed ears, dressed up in colors like a cockatiel. The world around them was noisy with shouting and laughing and clapping and stomping. And she danced. In her dream, she felt like a teardrop, drunk in laughter.

When Rana woke up, her fever had receded and it was quiet all around, save for the low mumblings from Dandelion. She made out a few words despite the shaky feeling she still had fresh after a good fever slumber.

Something about destiny, laws, and surprises.

"… And that, my good host, was how Ciri ended up leaving the witcher's keep with our noble witcher. I met her, too. You know, I never imagined myself praising children one day, but today's the day. I mean, tonight is the day. Wait, tonight is the night?..." His voice fell lower and lower until with a small thud it stopped altogether with Dandelion's head on the ground.

Everyone was fast asleep and the little cottage reeked of alcohol, even the witcher, whom Rana had a feeling she should talk to, about her weird dream. Why? She didn't know, but somehow she sensed familiarity somewhere.

She sat up and leaned against the wall, feeling a little lightheaded. When she scanned the room, her eyes met with that of the barber-surgeon's. Two pairs of eyes, both gleaming in the darkness. She thought some sort of explanation was expected, but wasn't sure what would had been appropriate or sensible. So she said nothing. Perhaps he wanted to ask, or explain, or both. But he didn't, either. His face seems kind, and there's curiosity in his eyes. Nobody spoke for what could had been a very long or a very short period of time; Rana wasn't sure. She was feeling a little lightheaded. That feeling made her voice croak when she finally spoke.

"I had a bad dream." She felt and heard the dryness in her throat, and was surprised at her own inappropriate frankness. "I don't know why it's bad. Nothing categorically bad happened. I just felt so bad. And my head hurts." I sound like a little thought.

The barber-surgeon stood up effortlessly and went outside. He came back very quickly and almost soundlessly (or maybe it was?),now holding a cup in his hand.

"It's from the spring. I will heat it up now, please wait a little." He said in a quiet and somewhat apologetic voice. He sounds kind, thought. But somehow I feel annoyed. Why?

"No. I will take it as is."

"Your body is still recovering from a severe fever. It is not advisable- "

"Just give me water."

She heard his soft sigh and footsteps, managed to sat up a little bit straighter and held her eyes open a little bit wider. "Thank you." She told him while taking over the cup, also somewhat apologetically.Maybe slightly less than she was supposed to and much less than she meant to; she was supposed to use the chance to apologize for being rude in her last line. My "social skills" got observed herself and made a remark, decided to behave more cautiously and be nicer next time.

The water had a sweet taste to it; clear and cool. It sent a small chill to her body and she felt colder but better. Her head was surer and she remembered seeing curiosity in his eyes. So, we need to take care of that, don't we. Well, I managed to pass Geralt, I can do it again.

She cleared her throat and said, "I'm not in the habit of leaving questions unanswered unless necessity requires it. But in this case, it's a little bit more complicated. I know, my eyes don't look very, very normal here, but to explain it, I really have to start with a lot of seemingly unrelated subjects and we'll end up not doing anything for a few days. So," She paused, taking in a small sip of moisture for her throat and used the chance to observe the barber-surgeon's expression.

The barber-surgeon smiled with pursed lips. "You needn't explain if it's a personal matter. I believe I hadn't ask."

She chuckled faintly, not related to anything he said, but the way he smiled, what a strange man, then, despite herself, she let herself think he was a little cuteas well. What am I doing? Still can't resist the silver foxes…

"Your type ask with your eyes, and I happen to see quite well. Anyway, I'm not a witcher, not a monster, not a witch, and I don't know anything about magic. I absolutely don't mean harm to anyone here. These eyes are in good condition and function well, they look a little bit… hmm, how to put this… Unsettling? But they are perfectly normal where I came from. And with all the aforementioned reasons, let's just leave it as is for now. A small and harmless mystery I promise to resolve eventually. "She paused to finish the water in her cup, but spoke again before the barber-surgeon had a chance to nod. "Besides, I suppose I could ask the same question to you. My eyes do see quite well, you know."

A not-quite-comfortable silence followed. Seeing the barber-surgeon wasn't in a hurry to say anything, Rana added, "But I'm not asking either, whether it's personal or not. We are leaving soon anyway." She felt a very thin surge of embarrassment washing over her, and, to her surprise, also disappointment.

"Please don't take offense." The barber-surgeon spoke softly, "I'm also not in the habit of leaving questions unanswered unless necessity requires it. But in my case, I'm afraid necessity does call for a little bit secrecy here for it would also take time – and not only time – to set the matter straight. But rest assure, I also mean no harm to anyone here. So, a small and harmless mystery I also promise to resolve eventually and, please refrain from mentioning this conversation to the generous company, for I abandoned my initial plan and decided to travel along for safety. I would not like to raise unnecessary concerns if possible."

Rana looked at him, her head slightly cocked to her left, her starry purple eyes against his black onyxes. Fear? Discomfort? Surprise? Fascination? If she felt anything, her eyes didn't communicate them. She put down the cup and remained silent. The flap over the door waved weakly but consistently, drawing cool air from outside in small doses, slowly desaturating the sharp, sweet scent of alcohol that had grown vaguely sour with human sweat and other things. After a short while, she nodded, he nodded back with a purse-lipped the smile, she smiled a purse-lipped smile, too, but her replicated smile lacked even feigned sincerity. The cool air grew cooler and cooler, clearer and clearer. The small cottage started to smell less like a dreamy night in midsummer and more like a chilly beginning of dawn.

"What was in the bitter drink you gave me earlier?" She asked in a strange tone.

"It was a herbal remedy to reduce inflammation caused by an infection in your upper respiratory tract. Its bitterness is likely coming from ingredients such as Nepeta, Parsnips, and honeysuckle. However, I did add a dose of licorice to mediate the….."

"Thank you." Rana cut in bluntly, not wanting to waste time on the peculiar medical knowledge that made no sense to her, and decided she already drank the thing anyway and was breathing still, the act was foolish and unnecessary. She changed her voice back into the richer and warmer tone, "I'm sure I wouldn't be wrong to guess Geralt had paid you for the medicine already? And, if you don't mind, doctor, we talked this much without me asking your name…" She inserted some worked-up genuineness in the formality in the end, for she really did start to feel a little bad for the deliberate questioning and interrupting. He helped her, after all, regardless of the payment or not. It was not her right to question him on things she couldn't clear herself off of.

When the barber-surgeon spoke this time, Rana noticed a slight change in his tone. "I am Emiel Regis, not a doctor, merely a barber-surgeon in practice. About the fee, this assumption has to be addressed, unfortunately, as impertinent. For I requested none." Rana pressed hard her urge to roll her eyes over, an universal sign of contempt, when she heard and saw Geralt groaning with hands on his forehead. Instead, she smiled apologetically, "My bad. Please don't take it to heart, Mr. Regis. Thank you for your altruistic act of help, which, you must allow me to point out, is something of a novelty where I came from. I truly didn't mean to offend."

Regis' expression softened, again, almost undetectably, "None taken. And I noted that altruistic act of help, although as you pointed out, was something of a novelty, it is still in the collection of many," eyeing Geralt, who's now trying to stand. The altruistic witcher and his company, Rana glanced over with an stony indifference, were all rustling to get up.

Geralt curtsied to Regis with a nod, and asked Rana to speak with him outside of the hut.

The black-haired woman stood in front of Geralt dressed in a long tight black dress with thin white vertical stripes on the sides, stretching all the way to her slender calf. Geralt remembered the first time he glanced at her, he could almost swore that he saw Yennefer. But now he couldn't believe he'd make that mistake, even for a split of a second. For in everything she's similar to Yen, there's a minor detail that pointed to a major difference.

Like Yennefer, she dressed in black and white, but her dress was mostly black, the whites were but decorations, not a question of balance nor contradiction. Like Yennefer, she had black hair, but hers was cropped all the way up to her neck, forming a reversed-V shape in her nape, there's no raven locks waving with graceful movement, instead she reminded him of a solider; she walked with precision and a force, when she turned her head, the longer tip of her hair fluttered and glistened like blades. And she certainly did not smell like lilac and gooseberry; she smelled like something subtle and indistinguishable to the witcher, who knew practically every common herb on this land. Her eyes, however, did flash like Yennefer's when her dress got pulled by one of the peasant boy from the refuge group, and she looked as if she's ready to strike that kid down, had his mother not hushed him away while looking fearfully at the black-haired woman.

She clearly had no intention to align herself with maternal instinct, unlike Yen. Geralt thought. During the four days of travel alongside Zoltan and his band, she also exhibited great discomfort at every opportunity when food was offered to her, be it cold horse jerky, stew made of mushrooms, whatever Percival Schuttenbach found in the bushes, or oatmeal porridge, which was actually somewhat of a rarity in this deserted area. Made no difference to her. She barely ate anything, and nobody bothered to take the extra measure to convince her otherwise, given the portion of the food and the amount of people in the group.

Nobody, save for Dandelion, who initially advanced at her despite the dire situation surrounded us, as his complicated poet's nature demanded. The woman, unlike Milva, did not seem to be bothered by Dandelion's attention. They rode together and talked often, meaning, she asked questions while Dandelion eagerly grasping the opportunity to show off his wide range of knowledge on world geography, politics, and folklore.

I disliked her then. I found her eyes too inexplicable and her smile too insincere. She did not look like a refuge and I somehow did not possess enough knowledge to make a speculation about her. She's not a sorceress for I did not sense her magic aura nor did my medallion tremble once, so for certain she couldn't have used magic then. But she was not an ordinary commoner either. There was something ominous about that strange scar on her right temple, glowed vaguely in the dusk. Her dress and accent were also strange, less ominous, but providing no more answers; they were from nowhere I've been. An enigma. Which, ironically, actually ruled out her possibility of being a spy, since spies are usually adorned with family chronicles and trustworthy personal histories. She's mysterious, but not secretive.

And, Geralt thought, not without reluctance,and there really was something in her that reminds me of… of Yen. I'm unable to hate her or propose to not leave her by the road simply for the precaution during wartime. When she's by herself sitting in the outskirt of campfire at night, when she thought she's far enough in the shadow and that no one would notice her, when she bored her eyes into the fire and curled up to herself, she looked like the doll I had seen in Aretuza, or rather, she reminds me of a woman who did not have such doll in a time, long before we've ever met. And those eyes… they looked like they wanted to tell a story, but didn't know to whom or even how. I didn't know how to leave her by herself.

So I told her just that. To my own amazement actually. After what happened on Thanedd, I never mentioned Yen to anyone, not even to myself. I was afraid; afraid of possibilities I refused to believe in, and of the consequences caused by them. But I told her. And she listened. I had needed to talk to someone; someone who heard little of the ballads or the political tidings, and probably cared little of them equally. I don't know how much she cares about what I said, but I needed to talk to someone. And I was glad that she listened, and she replied with only her eyes. Even though those eyes bloomed in coldness, indistinguishable of any emotions if she meant any. Somehow it still reminded of Yen. And a reminder was much needed back then. Even I didn't know exactly how much sense was there in going on; there were so many questions and not enough answers to make sense of what had happened. But thanks to the reminder: one does not live by reason alone.


	3. The Name of Rose

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose.

By any other word would smell as sweet."

The forest had grown quieter with the fall of dusk. Everything cooled down effectively with the eeriness that seemed to be one with the forest itself, and they heard no footsteps all the way since the camp incident. They were sure that some people out of the hundreds of refugees had survived, but if they did, they did not make it loud enough to show.

Rana had thought she liked forests, and she did like them, before she was actually put in one. The street she had spent most of her childhood on had four mango trees. Slender and not terribly tall. But that's about where her botanic knowledge and real-life experience ended. She had liked them back then, often romanticizing the idea of taking walks in a forest like people in her grandma's time used to. She never associated forests with magical creatures like ghouls and vampires and other "hell spawns" as Milva had put it. This was not her environment. This world was not her world.

So all the more grateful she was with the company of Regis.

* * *

Some hours earlier, everyone was still at the refugee camp by the Chotla river and haggled unsuccessfully for provisions. Then, to Rana's absolutely good fucking luck, they became the witnesses of a classic witch trial, and the good company was not satisfied with their status being mere witnesses, but proceeded to volunteer as defenders of the innocent "witch." The local religious fanatic requested that defenders must remove a horseshoe out of the burning fire without bearing burnt marks.

Rana had thought things would, and perhaps should, result in violence, when the barber-surgeon Regis went through the "baptism of fire," so to speak, proved the girl's innocence and shocked all the audiences. Before anyone could have asked any pressing questions, a troop trotted over and all the frightened peasants scurried, taking those who weren't so frightened along with them.

The crowd separated them like a great wave. Before Rana could shout out a "what's going on," she could barely spot the archer' golden brown hair and make out the helpless cries from the bard. She could have been trampled by horse hooves once or twice, but luckily she had plenty experiences with avoiding fast-moving vehicles. Also thanks to her eyes, which were still functioning pretty well with motion-sensoring, and calculated better paths for her to get to the opposite side of where all the clamoring was raging. She ended up surrounded by shrubs and tree leaves, then the sounds of yelling and screaming became more distant, until she was trapped alone with herself in the forest. Somewhere in the forest. And she had no idea where. The branches of trees stretched out in clutches of each other, there was barely any room for sunlight to come through, not to say enough for her to recognize directions by the sun.

Not too long after the racket of people shouting and crying left her completely, she started to feel the tiny hairs on her back stood up and a chill running down her spine. There were noise coming from everywhere, fuzzy and indistinguishable; she'd swear she heard them, but she saw nothing when she turned around several times.

When it did happen, it happened very fast and noiselessly to human ears.

Rana's eyes captured a shadowy movement lunging at her from eight o'clock in the rear and leapt as far as she could. She wouldn't have been able to see it coming, had she not installed those eyes. American Eagle 2.5., See your world with the eyes from the king on the sky. The imitation technology had made it possible for her to see around 310 degrees, give or take. But that only saved her a little time and a chance to better look at what lunged at her:

an ugly, big piece of pink humanoid that walked on all fours, having spikes extruding out from its spine randomly. It fixed its big fishy eyes on her and opened its mouth, flashing its yellow and brown teeth. Then it waved its right claw towards Rana, long, sharp, and thick nails smelled of a painful death. She fell backwards on the ground.

In what felt longer than a split of a second yet precisely a split of a second, several things happened: the algoul thought he was going to have his appetizer, Rana smelled the scents of sage, wormwood, anise, and coriander, Regis appeared between the two seemingly out of thin air. Then, to the horror of both the algoul and Rana, Regis also opened his mouth and flashed his teeth, which were porcelain white and with pointed ends; like a shark's teeth. He made a sound to the algoul that could at best be described as a growl, and without any amazement or doubt, the algoul retreated. First it backed off a few steps like courtiers being dismissed by the king, then turned around and ran so fast before Rana could catch her breath or decide which way to escape.

Of course, such thoughts were for brain exercise only, because her legs were even spongier than before Regis had shown up, she couldn't even stand, let alone run.

The silver lining: she's sure that she had not pissed herself; after all, she had seen some stuff before, just, not a… The word came to her mind, it seemed so ridiculous and unrealistic. But then, her mere appearance at this place and this time was also pretty ridiculous and unrealistic. After what had happened, almost everything seemed probable now. She decided to just ask.

"So," Rana swallowed, trying to make herself look at Regis while she spoke, "You are a… vampire?" Despite her best effort, her voice quivered at the end, making the intended statement sound like a question.

And Regis answered, also trying to make himself look at her while he spoke, "Indeed. That is what they call me. I am, classified by peasants, scholars, and other professionals alike, as a monster, a hellish creature resulted from the so-called Conjunction of Spheres." He paused, pursed his lip hard, and suddenly looked her directly in the eyes.

He's searching for something, desperately. Rana thought with surprise. What could a vampire be searching in the eyes of human? She wanted to say it might be fear, or maybe even fascination fueled by some fetish, but she saw a pair of eyes that sought neither of those things. She saw in his eyes her reflection, a petrified young woman lying on the ground, supporting herself by the arms, looking so small and stranded. She saw that he wanted to hold out a hand to help her get up, but was afraid the action would only result in screaming, perhaps backed up by precedented memories. In his dark eyes, Rana saw something she never saw much before she happened in this world, and she remembered something she read somewhere else:

"A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet."

Rana held out her right hand to Regis. When their hands touched, she smiled, showing her teeth, and Regis smiled back, also showing his teeth. This time, she didn't even flinch.

* * *

Now the forest had grown completely dark with night's fall, Rana's eyes switched on its thermal vision automatically. With only occasional bright yellow spots darting quickly in the boroughs and among the branches: rabbits and birds. Their surrounding became an unfriendly blending of greens and blues. Amid the cold colors, Regis was a cloud of warm orange and intense pink, which meant his body temperature was somewhere around 27 to 29 Celsius degree. Another observation of the very mysterious vampire. The note in Rana's mind pulled the corner of her mouth up. It did not go unnoticed. Regis broke the peaceful silence by asking her to reveal her secret for "the beam," Rana told him she wasn't mocking anyone present. Bu once someone had said something, it just seemed unfit to go back in silence, so they chatted on.

"So, why do this? Taking up as a barber-surgeon, now traveling with a witcher, whose profession, according to my understanding, is to kill monsters?" Rana immediately regretted her last word, wishing she'd bit her tongue instead. She stuttered in an attempt to mend her indiscretion. In truth, though, she didn't really mind associating him with the word; the word with him was rendered harmless, only seemed exotic, special, even. "Sorry, I mean, that is the catalogue people put you in, right?"

Regis waved a hand in a careless fashion. "People do. And I have to say they are not entirely wrong from their perspectives…" He sighed, but quickly spoke again, "Deeds once committed, regardless of the nature of even the performer, became apparitions that reside in our halls and feed on our guilty conscience. Although dispelling these darkness is no easy task, a haunted house is better than none at all. "

"So in your opinion, what's the best way to bust the ghosts?" Rana asked, not for the politeness of a conversationalist, but actually wanted to know. She remembered her own ghosts.

Regis smiled with pursed lips and said, "I wouldn't say there's a best way, but I would say that ghosts will not be dispelled by ballads; only actions, even ones as small and trivial as lighting up a candle. Thus I answer your query on my chose profession, Miss Rana: I thought I chose something that would help."

Help who? She thought, but did not say it. "Please, just Rana. And it sounds like quite a background story. Wanna light a candle yourself?"

Regis looked away and kept on walking, so she nudged on, "Was it really so bad? That you cannot even drop a hint? To someone you just rescued?" Rana shot out the questions. In the silence of the forest, her own voice suddenly sounded unnecessarily interrupting.

She heard him sigh, his voice was tired. "It's… personal."

It was quiet again. Rana could hear her own breathing, very quick comparing to Regis'. In the bushes, some kind of incest rubbed their wings. On the trees, birds exchanged reports in hushed pitches and carefully tapped one foot then the another.

She felt the nature was closing in on her, with this awkward silence, pregnant with questions and opportunities. Opportunities she had faced before but did not take and did not want to take. What changed? She couldn't exactly point out what and why, but she supposed things should change and did because she's in a different place now. A place with forests and magic. A place without neon light and Trauma Team International. A place where she was helped without questions of price, and a place where it seemed had no limit of possibility. A place for her to be Rana.

And Rana decided to take the opportunity. Just a small candle. She said to herself.

"I also worked at a place that helped. So I told myself. I used to go out with medical teams six days a week anytime we were called. I thought we were helping, giving people chances I wish my brother had. But it's a lie. They weren't helping, they were making profits. People like my brother were never given anything and certainly not those chances, those very expensive, privileged chances. They let people die. I let people die. If anyone, it's only myself I helped. I got a place to sleep and I'm still alive. And my brother remained dead." There, the ghosts. Rana heard her own flat voice and was surprised. Both the voice and how the little candle turned into wildfire. She hadn't mentioned her brother ever since the accident thirteen years ago; to no one besides the police. She didn't know how she just said it and just like that, no trembling fury, no clutched fists, no hysteria, not even bitterness.

Was it really that long ago? And I am no more a twelve-year-old, waiting for my mother to wake up from those perpetual drug-induced dreams? Before I told him, all these are just stories in my head, now it gained its independence. Her "big brother," who was only thirteen himself back then, who was forced to act as the caretaker of both the sister and the mother, who'd never say a good word when she succeeded in one of those "cooking experiments," but always saved all the protein and the occasional real meat for her. Were they really separated for so long already? In these thirteen years, Rana had refused to talk to anyone about her brother. Those who cared said she was in denial, and some thought she went cold by the ways of Night City. Only she knew it was neither. She never let herself forgot two facts: her brother died, and she loved him, maybe even more than he had loved her- she only had her brother, but he had known their mother a year longer then, maybe he'd seen her in better shapes and that fueled all his fierce devotion that followed? She just believed it's only in her head he was preserved. In her private, organic memories, he could be just how she remembered him, untainted by no one else's added memories and words. Although she never tried to talk to an imaginary him. She knew it'd only make her more sentimental than necessary and she didn't need that to survive - She had to live on to keep her brother's memories a little longer. But during those really difficult nights and early mornings, she dreamed about him, them. Them happy together, them arguing about small things like the new paint of the car. Them living in a slightly different-looking city. Some nights, their mother was in the dream, too. And there was a man. She thought it must be their father. Those dreams could not be more boring and ordinary, filled with unimportant everyday conversations and chores and places, but they made her heart ache when she woke up, facing the cold reflective emptiness in her cramped apartment, alone.

She didn't know she so wanted to mention it, to make all those years before and afterwards real even if it stung her throat as she spoke. By keeping her ghost to herself exclusively, she felt she gained some control over the unsteadiness of her life, but she also kept the house in dark for too long. She kept herself in dark for too long, a dream, in it only her ghosts. Now that she said it, she felt that small candle light flickered and its flame touching her dream. It burned, but it was welcomed.

Rana looked down at her feet, mindlessly walking, feeling the strange empty relief one usually got after sharing a secret out loud. Maybe she was waiting for a reply. She did not know what she was expecting. She had never taken the opportunity before.

Just when she started to feel awkward and annoyed by the muted vampire, Regis gave her the reply she did not know she was expecting.

She felt a gentle touch on her left shoulder and looked back, it was Regis. Rana looked at him. His black cloak, slightly disheveled and dusty on the bottom rims. His leather bag strapped over the shoulder, permeating strong scents of sage, wormwood, anise, and coriander. A scent she felt she would never forget. His face, soft contours and aquiline nose, a tad too bent. And his black onyx eyes, deep and vast like the night sky. She saw many things and she saw nothing. Words deserted her, only her senses remained.

"I'm sorry." Regis said. In that second Rana felt all the blood and words flooded inside her and threatened to erupt with torrents, regardless of situations and consequences. No, I don't want to. At least not yet. She summoned all her strength and finally said, "Are we still far?"

Perhaps the question took Regis by surprise, Rana felt his inquisitive gaze on her and his hand withdrew noiselessly. His voice was still soft when he spoke, "I believe we've nearly reached Milva."

* * *

As they continued walking, the thick silence felt less awkward and more comforting, although it did not last long. With his mildly annoying (yet amusing and endearing at the same time!) mannerism, Regis asked if Rana was feeling like herself, to which Rana replied with a question:

"What about your personal matter? Feeling like lighting some candles for your newly confessed company?"

"I see I can't escape from you so easily now," Regis smiled, without hiding his fangs. Rana was not looking at him but concentrating on the faint red glows a few yards away. Before Regis said anything else, she spoke.

"Milva's not alone." She said dryly and felt her muscle tensing up.

"No, she is not. The Nifgaardian has been following us is with her." Suddenly Regis was a few steps ahead of her, making his expression hard to see. Then he turned around and said, "when we reach there, we shall see what happens."

Before they reached the little camp set by Milva and the young Nifgaardian, Regis stopped Rana. "When this matter resolves, which I hope would and in a peaceful manner… in any case, stay with Milva while I go for the witcher and Dandelion. And take care." He said in such a serious tone, as if he knew he won't be coming back. Rana was puzzled, looked at him under her brows and said nothing. Then they heard a woman's nervous voice talking, sounding like Milva.

So, with Regis leading, they stepped out from the gloom, in which many more words could have been said but were not.


End file.
